


"thank you for last night"

by zanoranna (rei_c)



Series: striker!otp [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Meddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/zanoranna
Summary: Fernando had been planning to watch the Real Madrid v. Barcelona game by himself, but then Cesc shows up at his front door.
Relationships: Cesc Fàbregas/Fernando Torres, Fernando Torres/David Villa, Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas
Series: striker!otp [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671553
Kudos: 1





	"thank you for last night"

There's a knock at the door and Fernando mutters under his breath in Spanish, praying it isn't the doorman again, asking about a package, or a neighbour, trying to get an autograph. He doesn't expect to see Cesc when he opens the door, though, especially not Cesc wearing his pyjamas and carrying a knapsack stuffed to bursting. 

"What the hell," Fernando says, but he lets Cesc push his way in and watches, arms folded across his chest, as Cesc heads straight for the kitchen. 

"I brought popcorn," Cesc says, "and some beer." Cesc rifles through the knapsack. Two Barcelona shirts fall on to the floor, a Piqué shirt and a Messi shirt, both grass-stained and looking the worse for wear. They're quickly followed by a small teddy bear, wearing a Barça jersey and a hand-knotted bracelet made out of worn-down thread around its neck, six bags of ultimate butter popcorn, a clean pair of socks, a Playstation controller, and, finally, after all that, four bottles of beer. 

Fernando sighs though he can't help smiling a little, the corners of his lips tugged up because, because _Cesc_.

One bag of popcorn goes in the microwave, the beer gets put into the fridge, and Cesc scoops up the jerseys before he turns to Fernando and asks, "Which one?" Fernando frowns, shaking his head; he doesn't understand the question. Cesc rolls his eyes and says, "Which jersey do you want to hold for good luck?" 

"Cesc," Fernando says. "Xabi and Iker and _Sergio_ play for Real Madrid, and they're playing at the _Bernabéu_." 

" _Fernando_ ," Cesc says, clearly mocking Fernando's tone. "You were the captain of _Atlético Madrid_. Please don't try and tell me you're _actually_ thinking of cheering on Real." 

Fernando sighs and says, "Fine. I wasn't. But I'd like it if Sergio didn't call me tomorrow, hungover and depressed and homicidal, and if it takes me hoping that Cristiano fucking Ronaldo scores a goal, then so be it." 

Cesc stares at him, then lets out a low whistle perfectly in tune with the beeping microwave. "Damn," he says. "Now _that_ is friendship." 

Cesc seems so honestly impressed that Fernando can't help grinning. He can feel his cheeks heating up with the slightest of blushes and Fernando shakes his head, looking away and saying, "I don't care. Gerard and Leo are your best friends, _you_ decide." 

"You can have Leo, then," Cesc says, and stretches out the hand holding Messi's jersey, shaking it a little when Fernando doesn't take it right away. "After all, you named your son after him."

"I didn't name my son after. You know what, never mind," Fernando says, taking the jersey from Cesc's hand with a little more force than necessary, though he's careful not to rip it. 

Cesc beams, hangs the Piqué jersey around his neck like a towel, and goes back into the kitchen, banging through the cupboards looking for a popcorn bowl. 

"Second door on the left, under the toaster," Fernando tells him, before disappearing into the bedroom. 

Fernando closes the door behind him, leans against and lets his eyelids flutter shut, taking a deep breath. He can hear Cesc singing in the kitchen amid the sounds of a popcorn bag being ripped open, the microwave turning on again, beer bottles clanking as Cesc puts them in the fridge. 

It's good to see Cesc -- good, but a little random -- but Fernando had planned on watching the game alone and going to bed early. He'd planned on turning off his phone and ignoring the outside world and hoping that tonight he'd be able to sleep, that he'd feel rested in the morning, and that his life would look different tomorrow, less like a failure and more like a fresh start. 

It's a hope he's had ever since he put pen to paper and signed for Chelsea, and it's a hope that is starting to feel more and more out of his reach. 

"Fernan _do_!" Cesc yells out. "Come on!" 

With a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, Fernando pushes himself off of the door and goes to his wardrobe. "Be there in a minute!" he calls out as he reaches in to the bottom drawer, past his current uniform and recently received jerseys from post-match swaps, to the very bottom. He pulls out three jerseys of his own, two in the bright white colour of spotless innocence, one in a red that might as well be covered in blood. 

Fernando runs his fingers over the crests of Real Madrid and Liverpool, then holds them to his nose and inhales. They don't smell anything like the people who once wore them, but Fernando thinks that maybe, just maybe somewhere in the fabric, caught between threads and trapped forever, some intangible reminder or spark might remain. 

There's nothing save the smell of detergent and fabric softener, though, and Fernando stands up, goes back to the kitchen and holds the three jerseys in his hands up to Cesc, who's watching him curiously even as he dumps salt on the popcorn.

"Iker, Sergio, or Xabi," Fernando says. Cesc opens his mouth to protest but Fernando says, "No, if I have to hold on to Leo's jersey, you can hold on to one of these. You're not going to go up in flames if you spend thirty seconds of a ninety minute game hoping Iker makes one of his brilliant saves, or Sergio doesn't do something ridiculous and give the ball away, or that Xabi actually has a chance to complete more than one hundred passes. Besides," Fernando says, cynical smile playing about the corners of his mouth, "what use is it winning bragging rights if Real isn't playing their best?" 

"You," Cesc says, "have become a real canny bastard, you know that, right?" Fernando smiles, for real this time, and Cesc frowns as he tries to decide between the three jerseys.

Fernando had been assuming that Cesc would take Xabi's Liverpool jersey, thus neatly side-stepping any support of Real Madrid. Instead, Cesc takes Iker's jersey, clenching the jersey in his hand as if somehow, magically, Iker would show, fill out the shirt, and Cesc's hand would be close, so very close, to touching their captain's skin. 

It makes Fernando's throat burn to see it. 

"So," Fernando says, looking over Cesc's shoulder, giving Cesc some space. "I heard something about popcorn and beer. The game's gonna be on soon. Do you know who's starting?" 

"It's like you don't even care," Cesc says after a moment, as he throws Iker's jersey over one shoulder. "I know it's _el Clásico_ , round three, but this is the Champions league and." Cesc stops, abruptly; Fernando can feel Cesc's eyes on him. "Well, it's a good thing I'm here, then, isn't it," Cesc finally says. 

Fernando gets the bowl of popcorn and takes it to the living room, setting it down on the small table in front of the couch and dropping the jerseys onto the middle cushion of the couch, an enormously comfortable piece of furniture that has the distinct honour of being the only household item Fernando has ever owned guaranteed to turn an ordinary headache into a raging migraine if he looks at it for more than three minutes. Originally, Fernando thinks, it was a red-based plaid that might not have been too painful to look at, but now it's faded in some spots and still vibrant in others, some of the plaid lost to time and the ravages of whatever family owned it before he found it.

Olalla keeps telling him to just buy a new one, that Chelsea paid fifty million pounds for him and he might as well spend the money on a new couch as on anything else, but Fernando has become attached to it. Also, he's convinced it's better to sleep on than his bed, and sleep has become such a commodity lately that he's not taking any chances. 

"Starting line-ups were, oh my god," Cesc says, coming to a stand-still as soon as he's in the living room. "You still have it." He lets out a whoop and dashes for the couch, nearly spilling the beer in the process. Cesc jumps over the arm of the couch, lands with his knees in the cushion, and even as Fernando is sure that his shoulder is going to come into close contact with Cesc's face any second now, Cesc turns, somehow, and ends up sinking into the couch with a happy sigh. 

Fernando watches him for a moment, somewhat amazed that the Cesc Fàbregas who caused a back-page scandal not too long ago is the same Cesc Fàbregas who's stretched out an Arsenal-Barcelona feud for a year's worth of transfer seasons, both of whom are the same Cesc Fàbregas sitting here, eyes closed and a smile on his face, looking like a happy and innocent eight-year-old. 

"Starting line-ups?" Fernando finally asks, switching the television from Sky Sports 2 and _Futbol Mundial_ to ITV1. 

"Right," Cesc says. He sets the beer on the table, then snuggles back into the couch, cuddling Iker and Piqué's jerseys. "You know Khedira and Andres are out, and Puyi's back in. So, Madrid: Iker, Sergio, Raúl, Álvaro, Xabi, Pepe, Lass, Marcelo, Özil, Ronaldo, and Di María."

Fernando hums, mentally arranges all the players on the pitch and tries to figure out what Mourinho's going for. He's seen the man's teams and formations before, and has heard a lot of talk in the locker room about Mourinho's spell at Chelsea, but if he had to guess, he thinks it'll be defensive and gritty, about as non-dramatic as the press conference was dramatic. Mourinho will try to hold Barcelona and the game will be ninety minutes of something that shouldn't even be given the name of _football_.

"Barcelona," Fernando says. "Let me see if I can guess. Victor, of course, Gerard, Puyi, Xavi, David, Leo, Busquets, Masch, Alves, hm. Who else?" 

"Keita and Pedro," Cesc says. "Their midfield will be missing Andres, though, that's for sure."

The television's volume is turned down -- Fernando prefers to watch games without the often pointless commentary -- and he sees the two teams coming out of the tunnel. He winces at the looks on Iker and Xavi's faces, much less Sergio and David's. Fernando reaches into the space between the cushion and the couch's arm and pulls out a jersey, the fold-lines creased into it after months of being shoved between cushions, under pillows, all over the apartment. 

Fernando buries one hand in the fabric while his other hand clenches Sergio's jersey so tight that he's afraid he'll dig holes into it. 

Cesc glances over and Fernando knows that Cesc looks down, as well, and sees the two jerseys in his hands, Messi and Xabi's forgotten on the cushion between them. Cesc doesn't say anything, though. Fernando has never been so glad for silence as he is then, watching as pictures are taken, as the two teams shake hands and go to their respective sides of the pitch. 

"Tell me this isn't going to ruin our team," Fernando says abruptly. 

"What?" Cesc asks, though he doesn't take his eyes off the television, where the game has finally begun. 

Fernando swallows and has to force it; his throat feels stopped up, too tight for anything except air. "Spain," he says. "The Red Fury. Tell me that our team's stronger than this," as the heated comments, narrow-eyed looks, and appeals to the referee start coming thick and fast. "Three-quarters of the team is playing right now, Cesc, and they don't look like friends." 

It takes Cesc a while to answer; they're both watching the game now, beer and popcorn forgotten. "That's why they have us," Cesc finally says with a shrug. Fernando wonders how much that casual attitude costs Cesc. "We'll calm them down and remind them that we're. I mean, between the two of us, and Pepe, and the ones from Villareal, not to mention the young ones. And, come on, like anyone would dare raise their voices around Jesús. We'll be fine, _niño_. We have been before. We always will be." 

"I hope so," Fernando says, and neither of them say anything or hardly move until Pinto gets shown a red card. Cesc stands up, swearing at the television in Catalan, and Fernando clutches his two jerseys tighter. 

Halftime goes by fast. The popcorn is cold; Fernando dumps it into the rubbish bin and pours his beer, now warm and flat, down the sink. He and Cesc take turns in the bathroom, sliding past one another in the hallway without saying a word, just as they move around one another in the kitchen, going for water and antacids. 

Cesc's phone goes off and he checks it, saying something about a direct message. Fernando has no idea what that means but he looks around, curious when Cesc starts snickering. 

It's such a change from the swearing a few minutes ago that Fernando cant help looking up and over at his friend, asking, "What is it?" 

Cesc merely holds out his phone. Fernando takes the phone, stares at the picture for a moment before he hands the phone back. His head aches but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest. 

"I guess Xabi invited, are you okay?" Cesc asks, concern all over his face. 

"Fine," Fernando says. "The game's probably going to start again." 

He heads for the living room, sits back down on the couch, shoulders hunched and tight with tension. It shouldn't hurt to see pictures of his former Liverpool teammates, but it _does_. Pepe is in Spain, and Dirk, and Raul, and Glen, apparently all invited over by Xabi. Fernando likes Chelsea and he's happy here, he _is_ , but sometimes -- sometimes he _aches_ with how much he misses Liverpool. 

The second half starts and it looks vicious right from the beginning. Sergio gets a yellow in the fifty-third minute and Masch gets his own yellow four minutes later. Pepe gets a red card and leaves for the tunnel. Every Madridista is screaming for blood; Fernando can tell by the looks on their faces and the roar of the crowd.

"Barcelona's going to win," Cesc says, as Afellay gets subbed in for Pedro. 

Fernando jumps a little; neither of them had said anything, too intent on the game, and he wasn't expecting Cesc to make a comment like that. "Why?" Fernando asks, because if there's one person who can read a Barcelona side as if he's there, playing with them, it's Cesc. 

"Leo," Cesc says. "You can tell by the way he's running. None of the Madrid players are moving with that hunger."

"Madrid's down to ten men," Fernando says. "It's not much of a stretch to say Barça's going to win." 

Cesc is right, though. Almost as soon as Fernando's done speaking, Messi scores. Fernando only wishes he was having the kind of season that Messi is, a wish that borders on envy ten minutes later as Messi scores a second goal with a brilliant finish after a darting run through Madrid's players.

The last few minutes are tense but David gets subbed off and then the game finally ends, Barcelona eking out a 2-0 win. Cesc collapses backwards into the couch, pulling out his phone. Fernando can see Cesc texting furiously and wonders who he's sending messages to. Fernando's own phone goes off and Fernando gets up, goes into the kitchen to see who the message is from. 

_horrible game but that'll be us next year_

Fernando grins at the text from Yossi and sends one back. _what, playing horrible football?_

 _nah_ , Yossi replies back almost immediately. _kicking ass at the bernabeu_

The smile fades a little, thinking of what Sergio's going to be like the next few days. Fernando sighs, steels himself for the phone call he's already expecting tomorrow. 

"Mind if I stay here tonight?" Cesc asks. Fernando turns, sees Cesc leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. "I'm already in my pyjamas, after all." 

"Yeah," Fernando says. "That's fine. You want the bed?" 

Cesc laughs, shakes his head. "I want the couch. You can have the bed." 

Fernando smiles and nods. "All right. You know where everything is. Um. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Cesc gives him a thumbs up and Fernando leaves Cesc in the living room as he makes his way to the bedroom. Fernando's not going to sleep for a while, he can already tell, but space is good and he likes Cesc but he's gotten used to the quiet. 

Hours pass as Fernando sits in his bed, flipping through magazines and watching Chelsea matches from earlier in the year on his laptop. It's four in the morning when there's a tentative knock on the door and Cesc opens it a moment later. He looks tired, eyes drooping with sleep. 

"You're still awake," Cesc says, as he comes into the bedroom and closes the door behind him. "Why?" 

Fernando watches with a raised eyebrow as Cesc gets into bed, pushes Fernando over a little, and stretches out, laying on his side to look up at Fernando even as Cesc's yawning. 

"Why are _you_ awake?" Fernando asks in reply, side-stepping Cesc's question. "And what are you _doing_?" 

Cesc leans up enough to close Fernando's laptop and then moves it to the floor, pushing off the magazines right after. He's twisting enough to make his shirt ride up and Fernando's eyes linger on Cesc's stomach, the groove of his hipbone. It's a sight he's seen a thousand times before, but somehow, now, with the faintest hint of morning and moonlight battling in the sky outside, with Cesc _in his bed_ , it's entirely different. 

"What do you mean, what am I doing?" Cesc asks. His eyes look dark, even with the lamp still on, giving off a dim light from the corner. "I would think it's obvious." 

Fernando stares at Cesc, then shakes his head, makes a move to get out of the bed. "I'll take the couch."

Cesc reaches out faster than Fernando thinks anyone should be able to move at this time of day, and grabs hold of Fernando's shirt. He tugs Fernando back as Fernando's standing, and Fernando goes tumbling back onto the bed. 

"Cesc, what the fuck," Fernando says. He tries to get up again but Cesc rolls half on top of him, puts one knee between Fernando's legs and one arm on either side of Fernando's shoulders. 

"Fernando," Cesc says. "Come on. Stop trying to pretend that everything's all right and just. Damn it, just let someone else take care of you for once." 

Fernando scowls and tries to push Cesc off. "You're not my fucking captain, Cesc, or did you forget I transferred to Chelsea and not Arsenal? Come on, did Olalla put you up to this? What the hell's going on?" 

Cesc waits until Fernando's laying there, glaring, before he says anything. "Olalla didn't put me up to this. Okay? I just. There's a lot of people worried about you, _niño_. Even before the transfer, and it hasn't been any better since. You've looked positively miserable the past few months. I think the goal you scored was the first time I've seen you smile since we won the Cup." 

"So you thought, what, you'd pin me to the bed and get me to talk?" Fernando asks, ending his question with a laugh of complete disbelief. 

"Actually," Cesc says, "I had other things in mind." 

He drops his head, fits his lips to Fernando's, and Fernando can only freeze in complete and absolute shock as Cesc _kisses_ him. Only when Cesc stops, looking at Fernando with a wary expression on his face, does Fernando say, "What the _fuck_."

"Live a little," Cesc says, softly, as he bends down and kisses Fernando again, softly, before his lips trail across Fernando's cheek. Fernando swallows and Cesc seems to sense that he's gaining an advantage because he adds, "Let me do this, Fernando, please. Let me take care of you, just this once."

"Iker's going to kill you," Fernando murmurs, as Cesc's hand runs through his hair. Fernando closes his eyes, trying to relax, forcing himself to calm down and let Cesc get this out of his system. "If Gerard doesn't kill me first." 

Cesc hums, then drags his teeth down Fernando's neck, biting when he hits Fernando's collarbone. "Iker's not going to kill me, Geri's not going to kill you, Sergio's not going to kill me, and," he says, pausing just for a moment, "David's not going to kill you." Fernando stiffens, can't help it, and Cesc laughs just a little, looking up at Fernando. "You and David, it's kind of an open secret, _niño_. Everyone knows. It's not like we missed that epic screaming match he had with Sergio at the Euros, for starters."

"Shit," Fernando says, hands ineffectually trying to push Cesc away. "Are you, on my god." 

"Plus," Cesc says, fingers stroking up under Fernando's shirt, nails scratching at Fernando's sides until Fernando's looking at him again. "You've got one of his Barcelona jerseys. You know what David is like with his jerseys." 

Fernando grins, can't help it, and he says, "Yeah," as he remembers the circumstances of receiving _that_ particular present. "I mean," he says, tensing back up, glaring at Cesc. "Just, would you tell me what's going _on_." 

Cesc sighs and rolls his eyes, sitting up a little, pinning Fernando's legs beneath the weight of his body. "The absolute truth, here goes. You've been fucking _miserable_ for months, maybe even a year, by this point. Everyone's worried, especially Sergio and David. So Sergio called me up and told me to get you to relax, and Iker was on the call as well and he told me, as our _captain_ ," Cesc stresses, "to do whatever it took. And then, not five minutes later, I got a call from Geri and David, who both told me that it wasn't their idea but that they thought it was a good one." Fernando's staring, can't _not_ , even more so when Cesc adds, as if in an afterthought, "David did threaten me with physical harm and death if I wasn't careful with you, though. He said he was the only one allowed to mark you up, which told me way more about you two than I really wanted to know." 

Fernando's shocked and his brain's slowed almost to a crawl. He can't decide whether he's pissed off beyond belief at his teammates, friends, and -- and whatever David is, talking about him behind his back and arranging something like this or completely awed that they're really that worried about him. 

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Cesc asks, for the first time tonight looking unsure of himself and completely acting his age. "And, um. You're not going to let David kill me, either, right?"

"If anything, I'm going to kill _him_ ," Fernando says, mouth still on auto-pilot. He's quiet for a few more minutes, Cesc looking more and more uncomfortable every second that the silence lasts. Finally, Fernando lifts his hands, cups Cesc's cheeks, and leans up to give Cesc a kiss, though one much more chaste than Cesc's earlier attempts. 

"Thank you," Fernando says, breathing out the words an inch from Cesc's mouth. "But I'm." 

Cesc licks his lips and says, "It wouldn't be a chore, _niño_. There's a reason they asked me, rather than Pepe or Silva." 

Fernando blinks at the confession and, after a moment of clear indecision, pulls Cesc back down to the bed. 

They get naked and jerk each other off. It's almost a blur to Fernando, narrowed down to the feel of Cesc's fingers around his cock, the noises Cesc makes when Fernando wraps his spit-slicked palm around Cesc's dick, the way Cesc kisses, the way Fernando's toes curl as he comes. It's entirely different from the way Fernando and Sergio used to do this and the complete opposite of the usual rough-and-tumble way Fernando and David fuck. Cesc is innocent and debauched at the same time, approaches sex almost like worship, is soft and gentle and loving. It's enough to make Fernando's head swim with post-coital fatigue; he doesn't expect Cesc to be a cuddler but he's not entirely surprised when Cesc curls in close and tangles his feet up with Fernando's. 

Cesc falls asleep quickly after he's pressed a kiss to Fernando's sternum and whispered, "Thank you, _niño_." 

Fernando finally smiles as Cesc's breath evens out into sleep and he follows into dreamland a few minutes after he kisses Cesc's forehead and murmurs, "Thank _you_ , Cesc." 

When Fernando wakes up to his alarm in the morning, Cesc is gone. Fernando's Villa jersey is tucked up near his face, where he usually sleeps with it, and his phone is within reach. Fernando turns off the alarm and checks to see that he has a dozen texts each from Iker, Sergio, Gerard, and David. Fernando decides that they all deserve a cold shoulder for a few hours, so he texts Cesc and then gets ready for practice.

_good luck this weekend & thank you for last night_

.


End file.
